


All That Is Gold

by wingedspirit



Series: A Blaze of Light [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Extremely light angst, Fluff, Glitter, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Raphael!Crowley, True Forms, because look at them actually TALKING to each other, it's resolved immediately, post-armageddon't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Glitter, conversations, true forms, and a very good night.(Set a few months after Armageddon't. If you've not read the main fic in this universe, you'll end up confused.)





	All That Is Gold

They don’t really need to sleep anymore, now.

Their personal reservoir of power is, of course, still separate from the infinite wellspring to which they now have access as guardians of Earth; but unless they specifically choose otherwise, all their miracles pull power from the latter, not the former. And so they don’t need to sleep.

Crowley still enjoys sleeping for its own sake, though; and Aziraphale… well.

Sleeping is one human habit Aziraphale has never fully embraced. He has only ever slept when he needed to, and he much prefers to spend the quiet night-time hours reading, rather than wasting them on unconsciousness. But he can read just as easily in bed as he can anywhere else; and he loves watching over Crowley as he sleeps.

Crowley walks the world more lightly now, smiles more easily, shines brighter than he ever has before; but the habit of millennia is hard to break, and so, when he is awake, he is all taut lines and sharp angles, as he has ever been. When asleep, though, he goes pliant and loose-limbed and soft. More often than not, he curls up against Aziraphale’s side, head on his shoulder, one arm thrown across him as if reluctant to let him go even in sleep; every night a beautiful comma in the endless narrative of their new life together.

Tonight, like every night, they’re in Crowley’s flat. It’s not that Aziraphale has abandoned his beloved bookshop; it’s simply that the flat has an actual bed. The one time Crowley had fallen asleep on the bookshop’s cramped sofa, only to fall off if in a tangle of limbs half an hour later because he’d unconsciously rolled over to reach for Aziraphale, had been one time too many.

Aziraphale is already in bed, waiting for Crowley to be done with his shower, wearing a nice new set of tartan pyjamas — purchased, not miracled, naturally; he has a long-standing arrangement with an artisan tartan weaver for the production of fabric in his own pattern, and also retains the services of an excellent tailor. There’s a book in his hands, and, of course, a tall, teetering stack of books right next to the bed, in case he changes his mind about what he wants to read.

There’s also, slipped into a book close to the bottom of the stack where he knows Crowley won’t see it, a small bundle of printouts from various estate agents. It’s not that he dislikes Crowley’s flat; it’s very swiftly become a home. It’s only that on the heels of the realisation that _home_ is wherever Crowley is, another realisation followed. It might do them both good to get away from London, for a while; to find a place that doesn’t have as much history for them, a place where they can just _be_. Somewhere with room enough for both of them, where they can build something together; somewhere quiet, secluded, with a garden for Crowley to enjoy; somewhere close to the seaside, maybe.

It’s mostly idle thoughts and idle research, at the moment; he has nothing concrete yet. A property that will suit their combined requirements is unlikely to be easy to find, after all; although it is, as ever, fascinating how quickly one can get an estate agent’s undivided attention when one happens to mention the fact that money is no object. He’s looking mostly in the South Downs, simply because it seemed like it’d suit; and they’d still be living close enough to London that they could easily drive over, if they wished to. Plus, several areas there have very little light pollution, and the night sky can be seen quite clearly; he thinks Crowley might appreciate that.

Crowley ambles into the room wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, his hair already dry, falling in soft waves to the middle of his back; and stops short, eyebrows raised, eyeing Aziraphale’s stack of books. “I swear that gets taller every night. You do know you can just get up if you want a different book, right? Of course you know. I keep telling you.”

“And I keep telling you, it’s simply more convenient this way. It’s a little bit difficult to get up to fetch a book when sharing a bed with someone who quite closely resembles a very affectionate octopus.”

Crowley’s lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile — which he likely is. They’ve had this conversation before. “I take exception to that description.”

Aziraphale bites back a smile of his own. “Ah, my apologies. Would you prefer ‘clings like a limpet’?”

Crowley makes a moue of distaste. “I do not _cling_,” he says, in mock offense, “like a limpet or otherwise. That would be undignified. I won’t stand for it.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Good thing you do it while lying down, then.”

Crowley looks like he’s tried for a stern expression and failed utterly, a soft smile stealing upon his face. “Ah, you love me.”

“I do. Which is why I keep a stack of books by the bedside, instead of prying you off several times a night.”

“I do need my beauty sleep,” Crowley drawls, moving to fetch the soft t-shirt and joggers he usually sleeps in. The light catches and fractures over the long planes of his body, and — 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you covered in glitter?”

“What?” Crowley pauses, looking down at himself; and laughs. “Oh, that. New shower gel. Wasn’t expecting it to stick quite this much, but it doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

It really doesn’t. The gold glitter highlights everything that makes Crowley beautiful; it makes Aziraphale want to reach over and run his hands over him, and never stop. But… “You’re not getting into bed like _that_. Why would you even buy shower gel with glitter?”

Crowley shrugs. “Liked the way it smells. And you wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep me from my own bed for a bit of glitter, would you?”

“_Our_ bed. And yes, I would. It’ll go everywhere,” Aziraphale says, trying for severity. “All over my nice new pyjamas, and likely my books as well, because you _cling like a limpet_. I will not have it.”

“It was my bed first,” Crowley protests, laughing. “But fine.” He waves a hand, lazily; and the glitter lifts off him, curling into the air in swirls and whorls before apparently vanishing. “There.”

That should be that; but there’s a mischievous curl to Crowley’s mouth that Aziraphale knows all too well. And if the glitter didn’t actually vanish, and didn’t go anywhere that he can see, that leaves only one place it could be. He lifts his hand, and runs it through his hair; and sure enough, when he brings it back down and looks at it, there’s glitter all over it. “Crowley.”

“What?” Crowley grins innocently. “It’s not on me anymore. Problem solved.”

“_Crowley_.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, still grinning. “You could miracle it away?”

Aziraphale pauses, and considers. There’s a little voice inside him, the one that sounds very much like Gabriel, telling him that he shouldn’t rise to the bait; that it would be a frivolous waste of power, and unseemly, unangelic behaviour besides.

Fortunately, he’s gotten very good at ignoring that little voice over the past few months.

And so he waves a hand, and the glitter lifts off his hair; and then it multiplies, and goes forth, and it’s once again on Crowley, except there’s a lot more of it and it’s all over him, including in his hair.

Crowley looks down at himself again, and looks back up at Aziraphale, and smiles, wide and wicked; and Aziraphale barely has time to put his book aside before Crowley launches himself at him, all but tackling him to the bed.

Ten minutes later, there’s glitter absolutely everywhere. On the headboard, all over the bed, ground into Aziraphale’s pyjamas and, yes, some of it is on his books, too, and everywhere else in the room. They’re clinging hard to each other, both covered in glitter, laughing so hard they’re crying.

Crowley manages to stop laughing first; and wipes a smear of glitter from Aziraphale’s cheek with a thumb, following it up with a fond kiss. “Should’ve just let me into the bed as I was. Now look at the state of the room.”

Aziraphale hums. “Good thing you can miracle it away, isn’t it?” he says, turning his head so the next kiss falls on his lips.

Crowley grumbles good-naturedly into the kiss; when he pulls away and slips under the duvet, curling up against Aziraphale’s side and drawing idle patterns on his chest with a fingertip, all the glitter is gone.

Aziraphale strokes a palm down the warm expanse of his bare back. “Not planning to get dressed?”

“Nah. Comfortable like this. Besides, before we got sidetracked with glitter, you were —” Aziraphale can hear the grin in Crowley’s voice “— appreciating.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I always am, dearest.”

Crowley groans into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “There you are again. Always soppy, you.”

“You love me,” Aziraphale returns, an echo of Crowley’s earlier comment. They haven’t yet tired of saying it, the freedom to do so still so new after millennia of feeling trapped.

Crowley’s hand has stilled on Aziraphale’s chest, his palm flat over his heart. “I do,” he murmurs. “Always.” He sounds soft and relaxed, the way he always does when he’s in the process of falling asleep. It’s a rather more deliberate process for them than it is for humans, of course, at least when it isn’t brought on by exhaustion or inebriation-fuelled unconsciousness.

Aziraphale brings his hand up to Crowley’s hair, carding lightly through the soft strands; and waves his other hand to fetch his book again, the volume politely falling open at the page he’d last read. He can’t quite focus on reading, though, his mind turning in circles. It happens, sometimes; spend six thousand years hesitating, overthinking, and second-guessing your every action, and you will still fall prey to the trap of it every now and then, no matter how free you are now.

Crowley loves him, of that he has no doubt. No, no doubt anymore, not when he can _sense_ it, the immensity of Crowley’s love for him still sometimes leaving him stunned, even after months. They are comfortable with each other; and they have been intimate in all the ways that count, both human and not — all except one. It’s perhaps the highest, deepest form of intimacy, and Crowley — Crowley, who has so freely offered everything else — Crowley hasn’t asked about it. Perhaps he doesn’t want it.

Perhaps he’s waiting for Aziraphale to ask.

Aziraphale sighs and closes his book, setting it aside again. “Crowley?”

Crowley manages an inquiring, semi-incoherent noise.

“I was hoping we could, maybe… can I — can I see you?”

Crowley cracks his eyes half-open, frowning in confusion. “Y’re seeing me right now,” he slurs, sounding more than half asleep already.

“No, I meant —” oh, blast it all, this shouldn't be so difficult. “Your true form, my dear. I’ve never seen it.”

Crowley flinches, the motion incredibly obvious given how close they are.

Ah. It’s that he doesn’t want that, then. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked. It’s alright — go back to sleep.”

⁂

The tone of Aziraphale’s voice makes it abundantly clear that it’s not, in fact, alright; and Crowley hurriedly and forcibly drags himself back to wakefulness. “Nope, we’re not doing that. Talk to me. What brought this on?”

It happens, sometimes, that they inadvertently hurt each other; and after six thousand years of keeping things from each other, they’re neither of them good communicators. Their instinct tends to run towards hiding things, but they’ve found that if they let each other do that, the hurt festers, and they end up having a much worse argument later. And so, sometimes it’s Aziraphale prying things out of Crowley; other times, such as now, it’s the reverse.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale insists. “You obviously don’t want to, and that’s _fine_, you shouldn’t —”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to, angel,” Crowley interrupts, with a sigh. “It’s that I’ve no idea what I look like, anymore. I know the general shape of it, of course, that doesn’t change; but the last time I had a good look at myself was — right after I Fell.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, and he breathes out sharply, the gasp sounding almost like it was punched out of him.

“Yeah. Not really a good memory.” Crowley tugs at Aziraphale until he rolls over to face him, and kisses him, gently. “You didn’t know.”

Aziraphale tips his forehead against his and leans forward into another kiss. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Crowley shakes his head. “You didn’t know,” he repeats. “And I have a feeling there’s something I don’t know, as well. Explain?”

Aziraphale sighs. “You remember when I mentioned how Heaven got stricter and stricter about forms and corporations as time went by?”

“Entirely too well,” Crowley mutters, still offended on Aziraphale’s behalf. “Nobody has the right to tell you off about how you choose to look. I mean, if you ask me, Gabriel’s stupid purple eyes make him look like a right prat, but it’s his choice. I’m not gonna tell him to change them. Sandalphon, now — that he ever got snide about your choice of form, given what he chooses to look like, makes him an utter hypocrite, and —” The next part of his rant is very firmly smothered by Aziraphale’s lips on his. “Cheating,” he grumbles, once he emerges from the admittedly very lovely kiss. “Was just getting started.”

“You were getting sidetracked, is what you were.”

“Ah, but it got me a kiss.” Crowley raises his eyebrows and grins. “That’s encouragement to do it again, as far as I’m concerned. Or — should I have another go at enthusiastically appreciating you? Because I’m always willing.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch up in a brief smile. “Maybe later.”

“Bah, later’s no fun.” Crowley nudges at Aziraphale’s cheek with his nose. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was saying. When that happened — when Heaven started frowning upon, ah, non-standard forms — the attitude to true forms also changed. Everyone in Heaven wears a human-like form, these days, whether they have an actual corporation or not; much like every human wears clothes.”

_Nudists notwithstanding_, Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s starting to get the gist. “So what you’re saying is, someone’s true form is a very private thing?”

“Extremely private. To show your true form in public would be akin to — to shedding your clothes in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. It’s something you reserve for — so I thought we might — of course you don’t have to, I only —”

Before Aziraphale can tangle himself up in his fretting any further, Crowley leans forward and shuts him up with a kiss, long and slow. “I’m guessing I wouldn’t be alone in getting metaphorically and metaphysically naked.”

Aziraphale goes faintly pink. “_Really_, Crowley, must you put it quite that way?”

Crowley grins toothily. “You started it. I’m just continuing from your own analogy. You know, for the sake of clarity. So — you show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

It takes a moment for the double meaning of that last sentence to register; and then Aziraphale is laughing helplessly, batting at Crowley’s shoulder. “You are _horrible_.”

“I am,” Crowley agrees, cheerfully, “and you don’t know why you put up with me. So. Shall we?”

“You really want to?”

“Of course I do,” Crowley says, gently. “If I’d known it meant so much, I’d have offered. But in Hell… You know I was never really a part of their social structure; I don’t know all the customs. But I do know they don’t see this in the same way. Fallen never really show their true form, but there’s no intimacy associated with the act. It’s just — one more broken part of you that you do your best to hide.”

“And you are certain you want to show me?”

“I swear, if you ask that one more time you will be finding glitter in your books for _decades_. It’s probably not going to be a pretty sight; but I have no reason to hide anything from you anymore.”

“Yes, very well, I take your point. The glitter would definitely not be a pretty sight,” Aziraphale says, primly but with a poorly-suppressed smile, “especially not once I miracled it all into the Bentley.”

“You leave my poor, defenseless car alone, you menace,” Crowley says, laughing; and pulls his angel into another kiss, using the contact to nudge their bond into an active state. It’s been coming easier and easier, over the past few months; he suspects that soon enough they’ll no longer need to be touching to get the bond going.

Then, knowing that Aziraphale will be able to feel what he’s doing through the bond, he closes his eyes and lets go of his corporation, leaving only a trickle of power as an anchor to ease his way back; and, for the first time in millennia, drops into his true form.

It’s as initially disorienting as he’d expected it to be; no matter that this is truly _him_, how he was created. He’s spent six thousand years in a body that works a certain way, a _human_ way, two arms and two legs and one head and everything else that goes with it, his wings the only part of his true nature that is reflected in it. Of course it’s disorienting to be, once again, in a body that is entirely _other_.

The disorientation slowly ebbs as he takes stock of himself.

When he’d last taken his true form, he’d been in Hell, immediately after his Fall; and _broken_ remains the only word he can find that suits the level of damage he’d found then. Four of his wings were gone, of course, having been cut off — but that had been the least of it. Two of his wheels had been almost entirely shattered, the eyes on them blinded; his aspect had been bleeding sluggishly from a thousand-thousand cuts, not blood but his very essence spilling out into the void; and his core had collapsed on itself, turning from a bright star into a dark, empty horror. And it had hurt; every moment spent in his true form had been a moment spent in excruciating pain.

But now…

He spreads his six wings wide into the infinity that surrounds him, every first and last sunrise and all the stars he set into the universe caught in them, blazing in them as he moves. His twelve wheels spin and twist smoothly and endlessly around his aspect, every one of them perfect and unbroken. His aspect, coiling and uncoiling around his core, is mended, also, no longer bleeding out into nothing; although he can feel countless scars where countless cuts once were. And his core — even with his eyes closed, he can tell. It’s blazing bright, perhaps brighter even than before he Fell, shining out into the darkness and keeping it at bay.

He is whole.

He stretches out, leisurely, working out the kinks in a spine he technically doesn’t have, reveling in the ability to exist in this form without pain; and then he opens his eyes — all of his eyes. His vision fractures for a moment as he adjusts, then clears; and Aziraphale is there, in front of him.

Aziraphale’s true form is smaller than his, simpler, which makes sense given their respective former ranks; but no less beautiful for it. His four wheels are marbled in cream and ivory, silver and pale, bright gold; unlike Crowley’s, they are blind, for it is Aziraphale’s two wings that bear his eyes. The wings are the same bright, pure white they are when they are made corporeal, but here they shine, rippling and glowing with an inner light like cirrus clouds passing in front of the sun; the eyes, too, are familiar, the same colour as Aziraphale’s human eyes, that shifting, undefinable blue-grey-green he knows and loves so well. There are four taloned, six-fingered hands cupped protectively around Aziraphale’s core; the core itself glows brightly, wrapped in pale gold and silver flame.

In his true form, Crowley has no heart, but he would swear it nevertheless skips a beat; he has no lungs, no need for air, and yet he feels as if he is left breathless.

_Flatterer_, Aziraphale says, the tone of his voice halfway between reproachful and delighted.

_Not flattery_, Crowley protests. _Just truth. I didn’t say anything; you felt it through the bond. You’re beautiful._

Aziraphale curls his wings around himself and half-turns, managing to give as close an impression of a blushing maiden as is physically possible in a roughly spherical, many-wheeled form that absolutely cannot blush. _You’re biased._

_Not biased! Alright, maybe a little biased. But that doesn’t change the truth. If it puts you more at ease, though…_

Aziraphale uncurls a wing, the eyes scattered all over its surface peering at Crowley cautiously. _Yes?_

Crowley’s serpent aspect gives him a distinct advantage, in this case; he can actually wink and grin. _Having seen you like this, I find myself no longer wondering at how handsy you get sometimes._

Aziraphale’s wings slack open, the eyes on them all rolling in fond exasperation. _You are incorrigible._

_What can I say? You bring out the best in me._

_I do try._ Aziraphale manages a very close mental approximation of a theatrical sigh. _Alas, I am ever thwarted by your wicked nature._

_Naturally._

There is a beat of silence; and then Aziraphale moves closer, brushing a wing against one of his. _Will you not look at yourself, dearest?_

He manages not to flinch at the thought, but it’s a very near thing. _Eh. I know what I must look like._ He is whole again, yes; and he’s seen enough of his wheels to know that there is no trace of past damage on them, not even on the two that had been shattered; but he can feel the scars on his aspect, and he has no desire to see the result of that. Scars are rarely beautiful.

_No, I don’t think you do. Trust me on this, will you? You can borrow my sight, if you like._ The offer is casual, as if giving someone else even just partial access to one’s true form is something commonly done, rather than the entirely unprecedented act Crowley is utterly certain it is.

It’s that, more than anything, that decides him. Whatever he currently looks like, even though he’s still not convinced it’ll be anything but a mangled mess — if Aziraphale is this certain it’s something he ought to see, then he will look. _It’s fine. I can see for myself._

_Not the whole of yourself, surely. Your eyes are on your wheels. You can’t move them._

_Can’t I?_ Despite himself, Crowley grins. _Watch this._

All his other forms obey him wholly, but this one, the one he was created as, knows what it is meant to be; any change he makes is only temporary, and requires constant focus and power expenditure to maintain. Still, he can change himself, and this particular change is one he’s made before; so it takes only a thought to move his eyes from the outside of his wheels to the inside of them —

— and then he has to scramble to keep from losing a hold of the change in his shock, because oh, Aziraphale was _right;_ he did not expect this.

His aspect is covered in what remains of the damage inflicted by his Fall, but it’s not — he’s not —

Not mangled. Not even scarred, not really.

The marks lining the enormous serpent that is his aspect are all shades of gold, ranging from dark and reddish to a pale cream that only nominally counts as gold. They don’t look at all like scars, nor do they look out of place at all; they look like they’ve always been a part of him. And Healing is his Domain, and this is his body besides; so he knows immediately, with only one glance, that the marks are not —

They’re not all the same age. The palest ones are the newest, matching wounds that had only healed a few months earlier, when he and Aziraphale averted the Apocalypse; but the others vary widely in age, the darkest ones literally millennia old. The very oldest of them dates back to Eden, to that first night there, when he’d seen his stars again.

He’d been healing. He’d always been healing. If things had gone differently during Armageddon, he might’ve ended up something other than what he is now, of course; he doesn’t know whether his core would’ve turned back without divine intervention, although seeing as how it’s inextricably connected to his Grace, he suspects not. But nevertheless, he eventually would have — he’d found the path that was right for him; he’d been on it all along. One way or the other, he would have made himself whole again.

_Aziraphale?_ he calls, a little unsteadily. He’s quite glad this form does not possess tear ducts; otherwise, he might be getting rather embarrassingly weepy, right about now.

_Yes?_ Aziraphale’s voice is practically vibrating with poorly-suppressed smugness. Were it anyone else, Crowley would find it utterly infuriating; but it’s Aziraphale, whom he trusts utterly, whom he loves, and so, instead, it soothes him, settles him.

He lets go of the change and returns his eyes to the outside of his wheels, rolling them all in a wave just because he can. _Smugness is not a good look on you, you obnoxious, handsy windchime._

_I’ll take that under advisement, grumpy old serpent_, Aziraphale replies, cheerfully.

There’s a pause, and then they’re both laughing. In this form, their laughter is music — two very different melodies that, even though there’s nothing that says they should, somehow work together, building into a greater whole, a deeper, richer song. They fit. Here, like this, as in all other ways, they fit; they complete each other, as if they’d been made for that and that alone. He hadn’t even realised he’d been worried that they might not, until the worry vanished.

They can’t really touch like this, the forms not being built for it; the sudden, burning urge to cling tightly to Aziraphale is not one Crowley can easily give into. Still, he does his best, brushing a wing against one of Aziraphale’s and pushing all the love he feels straight down the bond.

Aziraphale shivers, leaning closer to Crowley, his wheels shifting as he moves; and Crowley sees —

Twined around one of Aziraphale’s taloned hands is what looks like a ribbon of warm, orange-gold starlight, shot through with lines of red and black. It stands out starkly, and yet looks entirely _right_, not at all out of place in Aziraphale’s true form; and Crowley knows immediately what it is.

It’s a part of him.

It’s a part of him; and now that he’s aware of it, he can also feel within himself, nestled close to his core, a part of Aziraphale.

He uncoils his aspect, baring his core entirely; and turns the eyes on his wheels inwards again, and looks. The ribbon that is part of Aziraphale is ivory and cream, shot through with silver and bordered in pale, bright gold; it’s long and thin, wrapped thrice around his core. It feels so at home within him, so much like any other part of him, that he never would have noticed it if he hadn’t already known it was there.

They don’t just have a Pact anymore; they don’t even just have a bond anymore. They’re very obviously well on the way to an Oath, capital O, the angelic equivalent to marriage, and that — that’s something they’re going to need to talk about. It’s not going to settle passively, it’ll require active consent from both of them; but that it’s gotten this far already…

And God help him, but he _wants_ to, he wants to give everything of himself to Aziraphale and have everything in return, he _wants_ with a monstrous sort of hunger that even now, months down the line, knowing how much Aziraphale loves him, isn’t yet sated — and it’s too soon, isn’t it? Too soon, too fast —

_I do hope you are not about to make a terrible joke about there being a little bit of you inside of me, or vice versa,_ Aziraphale says, mildly, dragging him from his spiraling thoughts, a wave of love and reassurance pushing at him through the bond.

_The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind._ Look at that, not even a lie; and the upside of being in his true form is his mental voice isn’t shaking. His human voice would be. _You think so poorly of me._

_I’ve known you for six thousand years,_ Aziraphale says, gently brushing their wings together again. _I know how you get._

It’s obvious what Aziraphale really means; and honestly, he should mind being this bloody transparent and easy to read, and he should mind showing himself to be so weak, so in need of reassurance. With anyone else, it would be dangerous; he would pull away. But this is Aziraphale, and so he doesn’t. He just feels safe. _Yeah. Thanks, angel. Listen, could we —_

_Go back?_

_Yeah. I would — very much like to hold you, right now_, Crowley confesses, _and these forms are rubbish for it._

_I’d like that._ Crowley can hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice.

_Oh, good._ He drops out of his true form and back into his corporeal body; and buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, clinging tightly to him. Aziraphale drops a kiss on his hair and wraps his arms around him. It’s less holding and more being held, putting the lie to what he’d said his intentions were, but Crowley can’t bring himself to change a thing.

⁂

They stay like that for a while; little by little, Crowley relaxes, the tight clutch of his arms easing, his breaths slowing and deepening as sleep takes hold. Aziraphale holds him close, stroking his back gently.

He should be happy; he’s gotten what he wanted. He should be happy, and yet…

He’s not an idiot; he knows what they both saw, what Crowley realised, why Crowley panicked. He knows they have an Oath _in fieri_. And it’s not something he’d ever have allowed himself to dream of — he would not have thought he would ever get to have anything with Crowley at all — but now it’s in reach, and he _wants_ it. He wants, so badly it leaves him breathless, to spend the rest of eternity with Crowley; to know they truly belong to each other.

But Crowley had panicked.

Crowley had panicked, and Aziraphale had soothed him, had turned it into a joke, because it’s what they do for each other; but it is very obvious that while Aziraphale wants this, Crowley doesn’t.

And the worst thing is, it makes sense. He doesn’t doubt Crowley’s love for him, he couldn’t possibly; but if there’s one thing he’s learned from watching humans, it’s that love is often fleeting; once you have someone, no matter how long you’ve wanted them for, you start wanting someone else. It could never be like that for him, of course; but it makes sense that Crowley wouldn’t want to irrevocably, irreversibly tie himself to someone like Aziraphale, with all his quirks and his issues and his foibles.

“You’re worrying, angel,” Crowley murmurs, his voice sleep-roughened, craning his neck to kiss the corner of Aziraphale’s jaw. “Stop that.”

Aziraphale stiffens in surprise, then relaxes. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I almost was. And then it occurred to me that I neglected to clarify something.”

Aziraphale’s heart gives a hopeful leap in his chest. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulls away a little, just enough for Aziraphale to be able to see his face; and his mouth twists into what Aziraphale knows, from long experience, is a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I didn’t panic because I don’t want to make an Oath with you, love. I panicked because I want to very, very badly, and — and it’s only been a few months. It still feels surreal to me, sometimes, that I get to have this. That I get to —” he pauses, and visibly swallows “— to be happy. I panicked because I feared that it would put you off, to know that. That it would be too much, too soon.”

“Too fast,” Aziraphale says, understanding. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

Crowley nods. “And you were worrying that I didn’t want it, because…”

“Because —” It sounds foolish, to say it out loud. “Because someone like you wouldn’t want to be forever bound to someone like me.”

Crowley pauses before answering. “I’m guessing it wouldn’t particularly help to mention, once again, how badly I’d like to punch my idiot siblings for making you feel lesser than.”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “Not so much, no, as I keep telling you every time you mention it. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Crowley huffs. “I’m the Healer, you’re the warrior, and yet of the two of us, you’re the bloody pacifist.”

That is a gross oversimplification, and they both know it; but refuting it would divert the conversation, and so Aziraphale lets it go. “Nevertheless. I love you for what you are, and — I would very much like to make an Oath with you, dearest.”

“Good.” The smile Crowley gives him at that is swiftly replaced by an uncertain, worried expression. “Though… I do think we should wait. If — if you’re amenable. It’s only… I want to make an Oath with you because I love you; because I’m happy; because finally, finally, the future is bright. But while all that is true… I’m still afraid, and that wouldn’t go away just because we made an Oath. You deserve better than that, and — I swear to you, you will get it. I just need a little more time.”

Aziraphale closes the distance between them again, pulling Crowley close and kissing him deeply, doing his best to pour all the love he feels into the kiss. From the way Crowley whimpers, he has a feeling he’s successful. “We have time. I will wait for you,” he breathes, “as long as you’ll wait for me. You deserve an Oath free of fear, also; and I will give you that, only…”

Crowley smiles again, soft and wide, and this time, it stays. “I’m not going anywhere; I will wait as long as it takes. We’ve gotten this far together; we’ll get there, too. Even if it takes another six thousand years.”

“Well.” Aziraphale smiles in return. “I have a feeling it won’t take that long. We did, after all, get most of the way to an Oath without even intending to.”

“Quite.” Crowley leans in and kisses him, sweetly. “There’s something else I realised while we were in our true forms, that you probably didn’t see. I’d ask you to swear you’ll not be insufferably smug about it, but I know you. That’s practically an impossibility.”

Once upon a time, Aziraphale might’ve been offended by that; but he knows Crowley is only teasing. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”

Crowley snorts softly. “Damn straight you will.” Then he pauses, hesitant. “It’s — probably easier if I just show you, actually. If you’d rather I not get in your head right now, I can explain, but it’ll take longer.”

“Do as you think best,” Aziraphale says, unhesitating. “I trust you.”

That gets him another smile, and another long kiss. Then Crowley cups his cheek with a hand, and drops the memory into his head. It’s not a long memory. It’s only Crowley, looking at himself through the eyes on his wheels; looking at the marks on his aspect, and realising that — 

— that his healing — his _Rising_ — had been gradual. That throughout the millennia, from his very first day in the Garden, he’d been slowly, slowly making his way out of the dark. That God Herself may have helped him at the last, but most of the work, he’d done himself.

He shakes himself out of the memory and looks at Crowley, stunned. He had always believed in Crowley, had always known how fundamentally _good_ he was; but to have it confirmed to this extent is — quite something else. “Oh, my love,” he murmurs, around the knot in his throat.

Crowley colours and gives Aziraphale a light shove. “No. Stop that. Don’t you get weepy. If you start crying, I’m going to end up doing the same, and then where will we be?”

“Crying all over each other like a pair of old fools, I imagine.” Aziraphale pulls Crowley close. “We have, after all, done it before. You might even say we are old hands at it.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Crowley mumbles, a trifle wetly, into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “This did not figure into my plans for tonight.”

“You had plans other than sleeping? I suppose we can get to those after the crying, then.”

Crowley grumbles something entirely unintelligible; but from the tone of it, Aziraphale can make an educated guess as to its contents.

“That’s not nice,” he says, mildly, biting back a smile.

“_Nice_,” Crowley mutters. “If you want nice, you’re in bed with the wrong person.”

“I disagree, dearest.” Aziraphale hums, and starts lightly scratching down Crowley’s back, along his spine. “You’re just lovely, I think. Nice, and kind, and caring…”

Crowley groans, arching his back. “You’re going to stop scratching if I tell you to shut up, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Bastard. That’s not playing fair — oh, nngh, right _there_ —”

Aziraphale laughs and keeps scratching. “Charming, and — and _good_, and —”

“Running out of adjectives, angel?” Crowley drawls. “Shall I fetch you a thesaurus?”

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, fondly.

“Shan’t.” Crowley tilts his head up to grin at him. “But do feel free to keep going, even if you can’t think of anything else to say. Although that’s almost _scandalous_, for a learned angel such as yourself to run out of words.”

“You’re trying to bait me into calling you terrible, and it won’t work,” Aziraphale says, firmly, scratching his way back up Crowley’s spine. “I shall not be foiled by your —” _evil plans_, Aziraphale almost says, catching himself just in time “— scheming.”

“‘Scheming’,” Crowley echoes, knowingly. “You didn’t mean to say ‘wicked plots’, instead, by any chance? Or ‘evil plans’? Or —”

Aziraphale shuts him up the only way he has left; with a kiss.

“D’you know,” Crowley says, when they eventually break apart. “I find myself reconsidering my plans for tonight.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes.” Crowley leans in for another kiss, and —

Aziraphale can’t help but gasp and shiver at the sparking, electric feeling traveling down his spine. It’s not quite a touch, and Crowley’s hands haven’t moved, they’re still resting flat on his chest, but —

“That’s interesting,” Crowley murmurs, amusement threaded through his voice.

Aziraphale takes in a shuddering breath. “What was that?”

Crowley chuckles. “That, angel, is what you get when you forget who you’re dealing with,” he says, lightly, breath ghosting over his lips. He’s still not moving at all; but Aziraphale feels, somehow, a series of slow, leisurely kisses, all the way along his jaw, down his neck and then along his shoulder.

He opens his mouth to respond, but cuts himself off with a groan, closing his eyes and clutching at Crowley as another bolt of pleasure runs through him. It’s sharper, this time, stronger. “_Crowley_.”

“There’s a little bit of you inside of me, you see, within easy reach,” Crowley says, sounding entirely too smug. The ghostly kisses have moved to the inside of both his wrists; another set begins making its way down his spine, starting at the base of his neck. “And I happen to know quite a lot of things one might do with that.”

“Unfair,” Aziraphale chokes out, as another wave of pleasure washes over him. “Can’t reciprocate.” The kisses down his back have been joined by what feels like a pair of hands, gently stroking the arches of his wings and then — oh dear Lord — lightly running fingers through the soft, sensitive feathers on the underside of them, near the base.

Crowley hums. “You’re clever. I’m sure you can figure out how it works.” The touches stop; Aziraphale whimpers at the loss. “But perhaps you need a few more examples of the possibilities?”

“You are _terrible_,” Aziraphale says, fervently. “Don’t stop.”

“There we go.” Crowley laughs and kisses him soundly. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Aziraphale manages, as the touches resume. It’s the last coherent thing he says for quite a while.

The books will have to wait for another night.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is a fascinating video about tartan weaving](https://www.dcdalgliesh.co.uk/video), in case you’re curious. (Me? Go down a research hole for a throwaway line? It’s more likely than you think.)
> 
> The South Downs National Park is actually an [International Dark Sky Reserve](https://www.southdowns.gov.uk/enjoy/dark-night-skies/), so while I didn’t start out thinking “let’s just go with the accepted fanon”, it works too well not to. (Plus it saves me from having to do extra research to figure out a different suitable area!)
> 
> I and my continued Good Omens problem can be found on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
